


Missing Scenes from Danse Macabre

by erebones



Series: Danse Macabre [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Clothed Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, Haircuts, M/M, Makeover, Missing Scene, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:58:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4882945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of scenes from Danse Macabre that didn't make it to the final cut. Each chapter will have the appropriate ratings/warnings in the notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. samson and delilah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana cuts Dorian's hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is rated G

“Ser Dorian?”

There came a gentle rap at the door. Quelling the nerves that bumbled in his stomach like erstwhile bees, Dorian called out, “Enter!”

Sister Leliana let herself in, closing the door quickly behind her. She had shed her usual armor and hood for the occasion, and looked startlingly girlish in a simple lilac shift and trousers, a leather purse cradled under one arm and a bowl balanced in the other. She smiled brightly, shedding for a moment the dark cloud that seemed to follow wherever she went. “Good afternoon. Are you ready?”

“I suppose,” Dorian murmured. He forced a smile. “I bathed and sat in the steam room for a quarter-hour at least, as instructed.”

“Perfect. Sit, please, and hold onto this.” She pressed the bowl into his hands. “Can you fill it with water?”

“Warm or cold?”

“Whichever you prefer.”

Fire came more easily to him than ice, but he conjured a halfhearted pile of slush and warmed it with a gentle radiating glow from his palms. While he worked, Leliana busied herself with the satchel. Setting it on the small desk he’d been afforded in his humble room, she rummaged in its depths, pulling out a variety of increasingly disturbing instruments: a pair of gilt-edged scissors, a strop and straight razor, a bristle-brush, a small bowl and a tiny leather packet that smelled strongly of lilac, a vial of oil, and a variety of combs with teeth of differing styles and widths. These she laid out in a neat line at the edge of the desk. She then tipped the contents of the packet into the little bowl—soap flakes, he saw now—and added a few drops of the water he’d conjured, whipping the mixture into a light froth with her bristle brush.

“I’m so glad you’re letting me do this,” she said, wrist working away. “It’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself such a luxury.”

“Shaving a man you barely know?” Dorian quipped.

“Helping a friend.” She glared over her shoulder at him, but it was without heat. “Two friends, in fact. Do you not consider me a friend, Dorian?”

“I consider you terrifying,” he replied dryly, earning a snort of amusement.

“That I will not discourage. I’ve worked hard to cultivate it. Here.” She turned and brandished a comb. “Tip your head back, please, and try not to swallow.”

His skin prickled with unease, but he obeyed. As instructed, he had donned only a shirt and trousers for this exercise, leaving his bathing robe on over everything. She draped a towel around his shoulders as an extra precaution and gripped gently by his beard.

It was a horrible thing. He’d only grown it out of desperation, when the markings on his face drew too much attention in his wanderings, and while he’d adored the little mustache he’d once had, an entire face full of hair was a bit much to ask. It was itchy in the heat, and never felt quite clean, even when he scrubbed his skin raw with pumice and lye. And yet. It had protected him from wandering eyes more than once, and he’d grown used to its humid warmth around his face. It was an extra layer of armor in an unkind world, and each snip of Leliana’s scissors shrunk his confidence down a bit more.

Then it was over, and he was staring down at the pile of wiry black strands piled in a nest at his feet. He moved his jaw back and forth experimentally. “It’s cold.”

“You’ll get used to it.” She was smiling with her eyes if not her mouth, not at all put off by the lyrium that lined his lips like grinning teeth. “Now hush, and let me work.”

He hadn’t shaved in years, and the first touch of froth on his cheek made him jerk back. He stilled at her quelling glare, trying to apologize with his eyes. She snorted and got to work.

The straight razor was worse than the scissors—nothing like a beautiful woman holding a blade to one’s throat to get the blood pumping—but Leliana was deft and quick-handed, and soon enough she was wiping away the excess foam with a damp cloth. The scrape of the cotton fiber over his newly-bared skin sent little shocks of sensation down his spine, and he clenched his fingers in the fabric of his robe. Even fully dressed, he had never felt more naked.

“Take some of this,” she said, and tipped a little oil onto his open palm. “Rub it into your skin while I do your hair.”

“Not too much,” he begged, eyeing the gleeful way she wielded her scissors. “I like it long.”

She sniffed. “Very well.” She ran the outer edge of a wide-toothed comb along his scalp, drawing a line from temple to temple just above the lyrium tattooed over his ears. Hair didn’t grow there, or down his nape where the brands came together in a V and disappeared in a line down the center of his back, but his long, shaggy mane had hid them well enough. Now she shaved just a little more away, until all he had was a long mop on his crown and a fine, raspy stubble underneath. The mop she trimmed and combed within an inch of its life before braiding it back from his face.

A soft hand came beneath his chin and turned his face this way and that. Her lips pursed thoughtfully—or perhaps to hide a smile. “It will do. You clean up well, Ser Mage.”

“So I’ve been told.” He forced a smile. “May I see?”

She passed over a small hand mirror edged in summer stone. The man inside gazed back, both familiar and not—older at the eyes and mouth than last he’d seen, and wiser, but with youth still clinging to his freshly bared cheeks. The lyrium was no longer unfamiliar. Rather than disgusting him, he found it had become almost comforting, the one recognizable feature in a face he hadn’t seen in years.

“I… thank you,” he whispered. Leliana put a hand on his shoulder and left him to his musings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the Samson and Delilah imagery, but it's a bit awkward when there's an actual character named Samson in the games... oh well :D Hope you enjoyed!


	2. return to skyhold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events at Halamshiral, Dorian and Cullen reaffirm their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is rated E for gratuitous sexytimes

Skyhold seemed positively out-of-date after the grandeur of Halamshiral, but Dorian found he preferred it. Funny how a few years on the run altered one’s tastes. He could remember a time when the dazzling gowns, the sweeping archways, the endless parade of canapes and champagne flutes would have ensnared him; but now, returning to the grit and bustle and hard work of life at Skyhold was a welcome relief. Or would have been, were he not paralyzed with the indecision of a twelve-year-old trying to impress the girl next door.

He sat at the little desk in his rooms and stared into the hand mirror Leliana had “accidentally” left behind once her barbering was through. He was no fool—he’d seen the way Cullen had looked at him that evening, as if he could hardly believe his eyes. Dorian knew he was beautiful. The brands, while certainly off-putting at first meeting, were rather striking against his dark features. Leliana had worked tirelessly over him before leaving Skyhold, and again that first day spent at the de Chalons domicile, scraping every last twig of stubble from his face and massaging oils and tinted powders into his skin to make it glow. She’d trimmed and combed his hair sparingly, as he requested, and had had entirely too much fun lining his eyes with kohl to bring out the silver.

But as amusing as it had been, donning the spectre of the old Dorian for an evening, he was having trouble figuring out how to cope with the aftermath. He could never play a role for long with Cullen, not with their bond. The little pieces of flirt and fey he’d conjured had melted away under Cullen’s warmth, his touch, his kiss. His fond regard. But his looks, thanks to Leliana, had remained painfully reminiscent of the dandified young lord he had once been. And Cullen had… enjoyed it. Obviously. As Dorian had enjoyed being stared at like the epitome of everything a man could be.

He only wondered where that left him now. _Alone in your rooms, like a shy social outcast with no friends_. Ouch. That was… too close to the truth.

“I have friends,” he said to his reflection. The strain around his eyes said otherwise.

He hadn’t seen Cullen since the Inquisition’s return from Halamshiral two days ago. Correction: he’d seen him, as in, he’d seen him around Skyhold. In the War Room for the debriefing, out in the training yard, and once in the mess hall, a very awkward interaction wherein Cullen stared at his shoes and Dorian mumbled something about his research and fled. It wasn’t that he was _avoiding_ the man—they’d both been busy, more so since the failed assassination had put the Inquisition at the very center of the political situation in Thedas. The Inquisitor’s decision to put Gaspard on the throne, while unsurprising, had had… repercussions.

The bond, at least, was still there, an ever-present feeling of warmth and a fine, hair-raising tickle whenever Cullen’s thoughts strayed in his direction. They were straying now, just as Dorian’s own were. _Smooth skin, pale as buttermilk, spattered with freckles where the sun kisses him during training. Golden hair and golden eyes, a soft and curving mouth scarred by the life he has led. Hard muscle lying beneath a soft layer of flesh like a prize, a tender exterior that belies the strength within._

Maker’s breath, enough. Dorian cast the mirror away and made for the ramparts.

The day was overcast but calm, with a light breeze riffling through the mountains to kiss Dorian’s naked face. The Frostbacks had been tamed by summer, at least for a little while. He kept his hood firmly back and made eye contact with everyone he passed. Their eyes slid over his face in recognition, but no one flinched away, or stepped wider to avoid brushing shoulders. It was… odd. But not unwelcome.

He found Cullen high on the wall that overlooked the valley, a short distance from where they had once fought each other in the midst of a raging storm. He was fully dressed in armor and cloak, frowning as he stared at the grey horizon, but he jerked back from the crenellations at Dorian’s approach, one arm going immediately to the back of his neck in a painfully endearing gesture. Dorian fell in next to him, watching as one of Leliana’s birds circled idly overhead before heading east.

“I’m not used to this,” Cullen said suddenly. They weren’t quite touching, but Dorian could feel his presence in the hum of his brands, the turmoil that darkened the flavor of the lyrium on his lips.

“Nor I.”

“I thought perhaps I had dreamed it.” He laughed a little, scoffing at himself, but still riddled with doubt. “Coming back here, after everything that happened… it was hard to reconcile.”

“The things you said…”

“Were true. All of them.” Cullen turned, abruptly fierce. His passion lashed through Dorian’s brands and lit them up like the night sky’s twin moons, and Cullen softened, reaching out to smudge the line of Dorian’s jaw with his thumb. “They are still true.”

“Likewise.” His breath felt caught in his chest, his heart a rapid rabbit-beat beneath his sternum. Cullen’s golden eyes paralyzed him, as different from his own as day from night, but all the more dear for it. “And I know what you mean. I’m glad to be back in Skyhold, but it’s too easy to fall back into familiar patterns.” He smiled through the sweet ache of Cullen’s touch. “Old habits die hard.”

Cullen nodded, but it turned quickly into a tilt, then a lean, and then his mouth was a breath away from Dorian’s. The pit of Dorian’s stomach clenched in anticipation.

“Commander! I have the reports you requested from Sister Leliana.”

Cullen yanked away from him as if he had been burned. Dorian looked down at his palms to double-check, but there was no smoke rising from his sleeves, nor the smell of char. He glanced toward the hapless scout and away again, warm with embarrassment and a little bit of anger. At the scout or at Cullen he couldn’t be sure.

 _He’s ashamed of you_ , came the sneaky little voice, sounding suspiciously like his father. _He’s the Commander of the Inquisition—why on earth would he want to be seen with someone like you?_

Suddenly he found himself being grabbed by the arms and pulled into a passionate embrace. Cullen’s mouth devoured his, hungry and searching, and Dorian melted against him in spite of the discomfort of being crushed against solid plate. He groaned at the fervor of the onslaught and Cullen’s hands moved up to cup Dorian’s face, thumbs stroking idly as the kiss grew softer and slower, drawing out into a shallow press of mouths before they parted.

“Maker’s balls,” Dorian blurted, and Cullen’s face crinkled in laughter. “I—sorry, that was rather rude of me.”

“I’m not offended. That was, um… nice.” He flushed at his own words and stared at the flagstones beneath their feet, hands barely cupping Dorian’s elbows.

Dorian chuckled. “I thought so too.” He stepped closer, into Cullen’s space, and leaned up to steal another kiss. The warm, smoky smell of well-worn leather and armor polish rose to greet his nose, and he traced the stubbled line of Cullen’s jaw with his mouth, seeking the crook of his neck where the scent was strongest. Cullen’s hum of approval vibrated the back of his teeth and stoked the coals in his groin.

Reluctantly, Cullen pulled away, though he refused to let go of Dorian entirely. His eyes had melted into a deep brown, and his breath came quicker against Dorian’s cheek. “I have a little while before I’ll be missed. Would you… care to retire with me?”

“In the middle of the day? Commander, how scandalous,” Dorian purred.

“I’ve missed you,” Cullen said simply, cutting through the reflexive seduction coloring Dorian’s voice. He cupped Dorian’s cheek in one gloved hand, the kidskin soft as butter on his cheek, and bent to press their foreheads together. “If you’d rather not…”

“I’d rather _everything_ , in fact. How long is ‘a little while?’”

“Half an hour?” He said it with a slight grimace, cringing at the narrow timeframe, but Dorian gripped the back of his neck and kissed him hard, grinning against his scar.

“Then we’ll have to make good use of it, won’t we?”

Cullen led the way back to his tower rooms, conscientiously bolting all three entrances while Dorian braced himself against the desk and tried not to get too carried away. Half an hour was hardly time enough for the slow, romantic seduction he had planned. But Cullen was determined to dissuade him. He prowled toward Dorian like the great cat for which he was named, dark-eyed and wanting, and pinned him against the desk with his hips. Through leather and wool, Dorian could feel the proof of his interest, and it sent a bolt of electricity streaking down his spine. His groan broke off into Cullen’s mouth. Warm and wet, Cullen licked past his lips and met his tongue, and Dorian’s resolve crumbled.

“Take me,” he hissed against Cullen’s cheek, clutching his hips with iron fingers.

“Here?”

“Maker help me, yes. It’s all I’ve thought about for the past two days.”

A guttural laugh rattled in Cullen’s chest. “Only the past two days?”

“Well. Perhaps a great deal longer than that, but you must allow me to keep _some_ secrets.” He traced a path down Cullen’s neck with his tongue and nipped just below the collar of his breastplate, the old metal biting into his chin. “Do me a favor?”

“Ask.”

“Keep the armor on.”

Breath hissed out through Cullen’s teeth and he tipped his head back. The light filtering down from the window high above their heads spilled down his throat in a golden river and caught in his lashes, turning them flaxen. “All right.”

Dorian fell to his knees. Resting on his heels, the weight of the desk looming behind him, he pulled Cullen forward by the hips and pressed his face to the front of his trousers. They were stiff leather, rasping faintly against his shaven skin, and smelled of sword polish and dirt, of _Cullen_. Beneath them he could feel the beginnings of his arousal, muted by the thick placket but definitely there. He bit at the material, tasting leather and grit, and Cullen’s hands tangled in what little hair he had left.

“Maker, Dorian.”

“Too fast?”

“I… no.” His fingers gentled, tracing the edges of his shaved hairline and up into the longer thatch on his crown. One thumb dipped down to follow the lyrium that curved over his ear, and Dorian pulled at the laces of Cullen’s trousers until he could bury his face in his smalls. He smelled of fresh linen and salt and musk, and Dorian was suddenly rock-hard in his robes. With shaking hands, he tore at the buttons of his outer clothing until he could toss it away and devote his attention fully to the man before him.

Pinned, metaphorically, between Cullen’s looming height and the desk’s solid bulk, Dorian felt peculiarly safe—not restrained, or trapped, but protected. He pulled Cullen’s smalls aside just enough to free his cock and sat back on his heels a bit, admiring. He’d seen it before, of course, but not quite in this context: jutting proudly from the folds of his clothes, already moist at the tip, the foreskin pulled tautly back over the plump head. Dorian’s mouth watered.

“Change of plans,” he rasped. “I’m going to suck you, and _then_ you’re going to fuck me.”

Cullen groaned, and out of the corner of his eye, Dorian watched him stuff one gloved hand into his mouth to keep himself quiet. Now _there_ was a delicious image. He smirked and leaned forward to kiss the underside of Cullen’s prick.

The hot, heavy weight of him on his tongue was utterly mesmerizing. Dorian opened his mouth wide to take him in, rocking his head back and forth just a little, sliding him deeper with every pass. Cullen wasn’t too terribly long, but he had girth, and Dorian couldn’t quite take him to the hilt. It had been a while since he’d done this for anyone—but muscle memory was a powerful thing. He relaxed his throat, just a tinge of creation magic tingling at the apex of his gag reflex, and he teased the head of Cullen’s prick with his throat, not quite swallowing around him. Saliva pooled under his tongue and oozed between his lips as he sucked, cheeks hollowing; when he chanced a glance up through his lashes, he could see Cullen leaning over him, red-faced, nearly biting through the leather of his glove as his other hand reached out and caught the lip of the desk for support.

Behind him, something fell to the floor and shattered. Dorian froze, tongue still curled around the head of his cock. Cullen’s eyes fell shut briefly, considering, thumb cradling the hollow of Dorian’s jaw. In one smooth, abrupt motion, he withdrew from Dorian’s mouth and shoved everything off the desk in a shower of papers and discarded cups that bounced and rolled away into the furthest corners of the office. Then Cullen was drawing him upright, stopping to kiss his swollen mouth before he turned him bodily and pushed him face-down on the desk. Dorian went willingly, heart pounding in his chest.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice wavering and cracking like an adolescent’s.

“You use your mouth so admirably, it’s only fair that I return the favor.”

His trousers were easily opened, and Cullen tugged them down and off easily. Then his thumbs hooked beneath the band of Dorian’s smalls and pulled, down his legs to tangle around one ankle. He coaxed Dorian’s legs apart gently, and he could feel hot breath on his arse, so exposed but so, so delicious. Calloused fingertips traced the seam of his arse, teasing, parting him to the open air—and oh, Maker, then he could feel his lips there, soft, with just the faint scratch of day-old stubble brushing the sensitive skin and turning his knees to water. Dorian buried his face in the crook of his arm and whimpered.

His skin prickled with sweat as a soft, wet tongue lapped at him, little kitten-licks that had him sinking his teeth into the muscle of his forearm to stifle the noises. He’d fantasized about this, more often than he liked to admit, but he’d never trusted anyone enough to give it to him—or to give it to _them_. The image bled through his whirling thoughts: Cullen spread face-down on an opulent, full-sized mattress, hips writhing slowly as Dorian ate his arse until he sobbed. Dorian groaned again, throat constricting, and he flicked one hand hard enough to send purple flickers of electricity licking at the edges of the doors to Cullen’s office.

Those sweet, scarred lips lifted away, but he could feel the ghostly remnants of a smirk pressing into one buttock. “I locked them, you know.”

“I know,” he gritted. “ _I_ sound-proofed them.”

He felt Cullen’s intake of air more than he heard it, a sudden wash of cool air over his hole. The muscle twitched in response, and Cullen was there, massaging with spit-slick fingers to soothe and relax him. Dorian hummed and tipped his arse back into the contact. With his free hand, Cullen tugged at the thin linen shirt that was clinging to Dorian’s back with sweat.

“Take this off.” It was a command, gentle but firm, and it made Dorian’s gut clench with desire. He scrambled to free himself of it, and when he settled back down it was to feel fingers probing at him, slick with more than saliva.

“The Commander comes prepared,” he gasped, and gave a sharp cry as Cullen’s other hand came down hard on his right buttock. “Oh, Maker save me, _yes_.”

“You like that?” His armor prevented him from bending over Dorian fully, but Cullen leaned forward enough to kiss a line of lyrium that broke off into an even dotted line around the bottom of his ribcage.

“Yes,” he whispered, flushed to his hairline with embarrassment. “Just… just a little…”

Another smack, lighter, but still enough to send the sting traveling through his brands. They flickered in reaction and Cullen gripped his hip tightly, right over the mark his palm had surely left behind. “Maker, Dorian. That feels… I can feel you. So much…”

Dorian pushed power through the lyrium in answer, and Cullen’s searching fingers pressed deeply into his body, echoed by a sharp cry. His earlier attentions with his mouth had softened Dorian, and the intrusion was a wonderful ache, not at all uncomfortable. He pushed back into it, fingernails digging uselessly into the desk’s smooth surface. “More, Cullen, _please_. More.”

Cullen’s knuckles rocked against his body as he worked a third inside, undulating his hand in a slow, deep rhythm. Dorian could hear his breath coming faster, and a moment later his spit-stained glove landed on the desk beside his arm. Dorian clutched it in one hand, trying to stay grounded. “A fourth?” Cullen whispered shakily.

“No, three is enough. I need you, Cullen, please give it to me. Cullen, _amatus_ , please! Please…” He was babbling, but he couldn’t make himself stop. Then Cullen did it for him. His fingers slid from his body with a wet sound, and paused to tease the rim of his hole, gaping and slippery with oil. Dorian whined at the loss and tipped his arse back, a silent plea.

“Just a moment.” Cullen smoothed a hand down his back, stroking his sacrum, thumb angled down to tease his crack. “Turn over.”

Dorian nearly sobbed at the command. “I can’t. I—I swear, _amatus_ , I can’t move, my legs…”

“You can.” Cullen scooped his hands beneath Dorian’s hips and lifted him away from the desk. Dorian was forced to follow, arms trembling as he pushed himself upright. Then Cullen took him, cradling his weight briefly, and he found himself lifted and laid back on the desk, arse just hanging over the edge and his knees bent to his chest with his feet braced against Cullen’s breastplate. The metal was cool and unyielding, but Cullen’s face was flushed red and limned in sweat, mouth soft and lips parted, his nostrils flaring with every ragged breath. He looked as wrecked as Dorian felt, and that thought soothed him.

“Please,” he begged, one more time. “Please fuck me.”

From this angle, Dorian had to crane his neck to watch, but it was worth it. Fully clothed but for his cock, Cullen bore forward, pushing Dorian’s knees back even more as the blunt, glistening head nudged at his hole. The snug stretch had Dorian’s head falling slack, and he spread out on the desk, back arched, hands back to grab the edge behind him. Cullen hissed and rocked forward slowly. He was barely halfway, and already Dorian felt on the verge of exploding. He bit back a whine as Cullen closed one oiled hand around his cock.

“Yes,” he breathed, “that’s perfect. _Amatus_ , you’re perfect.”

Cullen laughed shakily and bent his head to kiss Dorian’s shin. The movement pushed him a little deeper, and Dorian rocked back to meet him, groaning when he felt the teasing brush of curls against his arse. “You’re exquisite,” he breathed against the smooth skin. He squeezed Dorian’s cock gently, teasing the rim of the corona. “Maker’s breath, I wish I could do this all day.”

Dorian chuckled, but it was a pale imitation of humor, twisted into a sharp cry as Cullen’s prick found the sweet place inside his body. “How—how much time is left?”

“Maker knows,” Cullen gasped. His hips rocked against Dorian’s body, more grind than thrust, slowly picking up speed. “It doesn’t matter—I’m not going to last.”

“Nor I.” He released the desk with one hand to reach out and tangle his fingers in Cullen’s feathered pauldron. The angle and his armor prevented a kiss, but Cullen took the hint and moved faster, pulling out a little more on each pass only to slam him into the desk upon reentry. Dorian groaned and released him, looping his arm under his own knee to pull himself open. The deeper push of Cullen’s cock drew a shout from him, and it echoed against the wooden beams far above their heads. Fire blazed up his spine and through his brands, muddling his thoughts—his head swam and his body strained, reaching for the final peak as it built rapidly between them.

Cullen cried out suddenly, forehead pressed to Dorian’s thigh. “Love, I’m close, I’m there…”

“Fuck,” Dorian hissed. He threw his head back, neck straining, pinching at his own nipples and scraping his nails down his flat belly, little zings of electricity that burrowed through his spine and built in his groin with frightening intensity. Over him, Cullen’s face contorted, and he gasped a garbled mess of Dorian’s name as he pushed forward one more time. Dorian felt him come—felt the slight swell of his prick inside his body, the tickle of heat like little liquid flames, filling him with Cullen’s seed. The thought was insanely erotic. He gripped Cullen’s hand, tangled slackly around Dorian’s erection in the throes of orgasm, and tugged sharply until all the pent-up energy broke free and he was coming, hollering at the ceiling as every muscle seized and hot semen spattered over his hand and navel.

When he came back down, he was still glowing. He heaved for breath and tried to calm himself, letting the aftershocks bleed out through the brands until they faded to plain silver-white. Shaking, he reached up and ran a hand through Cullen’s sweaty curls.

“That was… um.” He laughed weakly. “I’m beginning to sound like you, now.”

“At a constant loss for words?” Cullen asked, panting. “It only seems fair.” He caught Dorian’s hand and kissed it, licking each come-stained finger before kissing the lyrium nexus in the center of his palm. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t very… romantic.” He fingered the curve of Dorian’s hip, still warm from where he had smacked it. Dorian hummed contentedly.

“It was perfect. I quite look forward to returning the—ah!—favor.”

“Sorry.” Cullen massaged his empty hole apologetically, smoothing the inside skin with a tender touch. Then the gleam of his eyes turned wicked, and he sucked his forefinger into his mouth, slick with oil and his own seed. Dorian groaned plaintively.

“You’re going to kill me, Commander. Then where would the Inquisition be?”

“Short one mage, I expect. That would be a bit awkward, wouldn’t it, trying to explain _why_ you wouldn’t be joining him on any more expeditions.” Cullen smirked and tucked himself away as Dorian sat up slowly, every muscle aching. “Feeling alright?”

“Never better.” He gripped Cullen at the nape and drew him in for a warm, open-mouthed kiss, passing the lingering flavor of sex between their tongues. He sucked Cullen’s lower lip into his mouth and released it slowly with a wet pop. “Has it been half an hour yet?”

“I… honestly don’t know.” Cullen’s hand found the back of his own neck out of habit, and tangled with Dorian’s fingers. “Um. Will you stay?”

“Like this?” Dorian arched a brow and looked down at himself, sweaty and still half-hard, and smeared liberally with come.

“I mean—I have a washbasin upstairs, you could… nap, or read while I finish up here.” Cullen was blushing, with embarrassment now rather than sex. He seemed to realize he was still hanging out of his trousers and tucked himself away quickly. “I just wanted to keep you close, after the past few days… never mind. It’s foolish.”

“I like being foolish with you.” Dorian caught his chin and kissed him again. “And that sounds delightful.” He tongued Cullen’s scar and pulled away, laughing at Cullen’s ensuing pout. “I’ll while away the hours in your bed, all alone, entertaining myself while you slave away down here… hmf!” He grinned against Cullen’s mouth. “I promise I’ll behave, _amatus_. Wake me for dinner, won’t you?”

Cullen growled as Dorian gazed coyly at him through his lashes. “I will. Now go, you truculent man, before I throw you over my shoulder and drag you to bed myself.”

“Mmm, now there’s the barbarian I know and love.” Dorian pushed him away from the desk and hopped off, only wobbling the slightest bit. He ran a finger down Cullen’s bristly cheek and sauntered to the ladder, every sway of his hips a deliberate performance.

It wasn’t until he’d reached the loft and begun drawing water for a sponge bath that he realized he’d left all his clothing down below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra thanks to redxluna on tumblr who cheered me on when the porn-writing eluded me :)


End file.
